Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводах

Love in my bosom like a bee

Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,

His bed amidst my tender breast;

My kisses are his daily feast,

And yet he robs me of my rest.

Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he

With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee

The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;

He music plays if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing;

Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.

Whist, wanton, still ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play,

For your offense.

I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in,

I’ll make you fast it for your sin,

I’ll count your power not worth a pin.

Alas! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,

And let thy bower my bosom be;

Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee.

O Cupid, so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee!

My Phillis has the morning Sun,

at first to look upon her:

And Phillis has morne-waking birds,

her rising still to honour.

My Phillis has prime-feathered flowers

that smile when she treads on them:

And Phillis has a gallant flock,

that leaps since she does own them.

But Phillis has too hard a heart,

alas, that she should have it:

It yields no mercy to desert,

nor grace to those that crave it.

Sweete Sun, when thou look’st on,

pray her regard my moan!

Sweete birds, when you sing to her,

to yield some pity, woo her!

Sweet flowers that she treads on,

tell her, her beauty deads one.

And if in life her love she nill agree me,

Pray her before I die, she will come see me.